Grief
by reidmymind
Summary: Reid's friends and teammates help him work through the five stages of grief during the two weeks after Maeve's death: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, Acceptance.
1. Chapter 1 - Denial

**A/N: This is our (Melistborn and Phantomeyeswriter) first attempt at co-writing a story. This picks up at the end of Zugzwang (8x12) and mainly takes place throughout the 2 weeks after Maeve's death. **

**Disclaimer: We claim to have no claim.**

Reid intuitively knew she was dead. He knew it because that is the process that occurs when the human brain is penetrated by a high velocity object entering through the temporal bone and causing massive cranial and cerebral destruction which results in exsanguination. But a part of him wouldn't accept it. Not when he could still hear her voice in his mind, and still picture the mischievous sparkle in her eyes as she defied her captor for the final time.

Reid squeezed his eyes shut as the reality of what he'd just experienced sunk in, and there was no force on earth strong enough to stop the tears. He didn't care that his team was watching, that he was crying like a baby. All that mattered was that she was gone. And he'd never gotten to hold her. They would never make blindfolds fun, or play each other in chess, or read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to their future children, or grow old together. He'd never even gotten to tell her he loved her. A painful sob welled up in his throat and he dissolved completely, falling to his knees.

After a moment he became vaguely aware of hands. Hands on his back. Hands on his shoulders. Hands putting pressure on the gunshot wound in his left bicep that he'd already forgotten about. That pain seemed trivial compared to the ache in his chest.

He noticed that his knees were wet and realized that he was kneeling in a puddle of blood. Her blood. It was still warm. Reid's face paled and he heard someone calling his name from far away before the whole world went dark.

The first things Reid was aware of when he came to were flashing lights. Even before he opened his eyes he could see the alternating red and blue dancing through his eyelids. And then the smell of asphalt and gasoline and diesel exhaust . . . and blood. He was laying on a gurney in the dark street outside an apartment complex, surrounded by emergency vehicles. He cautiously opened his eyes and turned his head to the side, trying to remember where he was and how he had gotten here.

It was the body bags laying on gurneys twenty feet away from him—gurneys identical to the one he was currently occupying—that made it all come rushing back. Maeve. Reid's vision blurred with tears until he couldn't see the body bags anymore and he didn't bother to blink them away.

"Hey, Pretty Boy." Reid heard Morgan approaching.

The look of pity on Morgan's face made Reid want to close his eyes and pretend to be asleep again.

"How you feelin'?" Morgan asked, laying a hand on Reid's shoulder.

"When can I go home?" Spencer asked.

"Not until you get that arm looked at," Morgan answered, gesturing to Reid's left bicep that was now wrapped in white gauze.

Reid was too tired to argue. He swallowed and tried to sit up.

"Can I get some water over here?" Morgan called, helping Spencer slowly raise himself up to sit on the edge of the stretcher.

Reid's vision began to darken around the edges as the blood rushed from his head, and he thought he might pass out again. But after a minute his sight cleared and he looked up to see the other four members of the team approaching. Hotch's frown wasn't as stern as usual and Rossi still seemed a little shell-shocked. Both girls had red-rimmed eyes and tear-streaked faces.

Oh, Spence," JJ said, holding out a water bottle for him to take, "What do you need? What can we do?"

"I just want to go home." Reid replied in a choked voice. He didn't open the water.

"The EMTs are going to take you to the hospital to get your arm checked out," Hotch said. "Morgan is going to go with you in the ambulance, and the rest of us will meet you there once we finish up with everything here."

"It's just a couple of stitches and then I'm going home," Reid objected. "You guys don't need to come to the hospital."

Hotch and Morgan exchanged a worried look, and finally Hotch nodded.

"Okay." Hotch decided. "Someone will come by tonight when you get home. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone right now."

Reid was spared having to think of an argument as the EMTs forced him to lay back against the gurney so they could strap him down. He could feel Hotch watching him, but didn't have the energy to care very much. He closed his eyes as they lifted him into the back of the ambulance.

"Doctor Reid? Can I ask you a few questions?" The EMT was holding a clipboard. Spencer knew she needed to get his medical history. He nodded.

"On a scale of one to ten, how much pain are you in."

"I'm fine." Reid said, avoiding the question. "And I don't want any pain killers."

She looked skeptically at Reid, but didn't challenge him. "Any allergies?"

"Penicillin and other beta-lactam antibiotics," Reid replied, and she nodded writing on the clipboard.

"And can you tell me if you are experiencing any pain other than the gunshot wound in your arm?"

Was he? His brain felt foggy and he couldn't really identify what he was experiencing. Just then Morgan climbed into the back of the ambulance and the doors closed as the vehicle started moving.

Spencer suddenly noticed that he felt cold. The EMT must have noticed, too, because she placed a blanket over Reid. A blood pressure cuff was secured around his right arm and an oxygen monitor was clipped to his finger.

"Is there anyone we can call for you? A family member or someone . . . "

Spencer closed his eyes to avoid answering the question. Who would they call? His Mother? Even if she could remember who Spencer was, even if she was lucid enough to understand what was going on, there wasn't anything she could do to help. His father? Practically a stranger. The BAU was the closest thing to a family that he had, and they already knew what had happened. And the only other person he would have notified was now in a body bag. That thought brought on a fresh wave of emotion.

Reid felt someone take a hold of his hand and opened his eyes to see Morgan studying him.

"Hey," Morgan said softly. "You're gonna be okay."

Reid couldn't hold back the tears.

"Morgan, she can't be gone. We only got one hundred and a half days. That's not enough time."

Morgan didn't respond. He just continued to hold Reid's hand as the siren's wailed around them.

"I didn't even get to tell her I love her," Reid choked, looking up at Morgan through his tears.

"She knew, Reid," Morgan smiled sadly. "Trust me. She knew."

—

Four hours and a dozen stitches later Reid was released from the hospital. They had wanted to keep him overnight for observation, but Reid had insisted on leaving. He just wanted to go home.

Reid briefly wondered how they were going to get home, since he and Morgan had both arrived in the ambulance, but then he saw Hotch standing next to a black SUV in the parking lot. He was on his cell but hung up when he saw them exiting the building.

"How are you feeling?" Hotch asked, as they approached the vehicle.

"The local anesthetic is still in effect, rendering my injury virtually painless," Reid recited in an expressionless tone. "There's a moderate chance of infection, but the likelihood of serious complications decreases significantly with the administration of antibiotics. The doctors don't anticipate any long term negative effects."

"That's not what I meant." Hotch said, studying the young agent.

"I'm fine, Hotch. I just want to go home."

"We know, kid," Morgan said as he opened the passenger door and helped Reid climb into the seat.

They drove in silence for a few miles before Hotch spoke up.

"We've contacted Maeve's parents. They would like you to call them when you're feeling up to it. They're understandably confused and heartbroken about what happened, but they know it wasn't your fault. They wanted to make sure you know that they don't blame you for any of this."

Reid didn't know what to say so he just nodded. He leaned his head against the cool glass and let his eyes close again.

_I don't love you. I'm sorry._

Spencer's stomach clenched as he heard himself speaking those words. He closed his eyes tighter as his mind was attacked by memories from earlier that night, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't make them stop.

_Kill her and she won't have to live with the fact that you're smarter. Let her live with her irrelevance. _

He had called Maeve inferior and irrelevant. And even though they both knew that Reid was lying, those were some of the last things Maeve would ever hear him say.

And then Reid's lips and tongue had been assaulted by the person who would end up killing the only woman Spencer had ever loved. The memory of that "kiss" made him feel sick to his stomach. Reid had tried to respond the way she wanted him to, tried to swallow his repulsion and play his part convincingly while his every instinct was screaming at him to pull away. Reid could still taste her in his mouth.

And worst of all, he'd seen Maeve turn away in disgust. He wished he could forget the expression on her face in that moment. It had hurt him more than the bullet that had ripped through his arm moments later.

_Diane, Diane there's still a way out of this. I offered you a deal: me for her. Let me take her place._

_You'd do that?_

_Yes._

_You'd kill yourself for her?_

_Yes._

No! In the passenger seat of the SUV Reid flinched involuntarily. He didn't want to remember what happened next! But he couldn't make it stop. His eidetic memory recalled the scene in excruciating detail. He remembered the painful desperation in his own voice. And Maeve's last words to him and the way she looked right before . . . and right after . . .

"Stop the car," Reid panicked, clapping a hand over his mouth and unbuckling his seat-belt.

Hotch glanced over and immediately understood what was about to happen. The vehicle slowed to a stop on the side of the road as Reid fumbled with the door handle. It opened just in time. He spilled out of the car onto all fours beneath a street light where his stomach wretched and heaved until all he was bringing up was stringy bile.

When his body was finally spent he realized there were hands holding his head and rubbing his back. He'd been too preoccupied to notice. He wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve, knowing his shirt was already ruined. Even if it hadn't been stained by blood and vomit he knew he would always associated it with the events that had taken place tonight. He never wanted to see this shirt again.

"Think you're done?" Morgan asked reaching down to help Reid to his feet.

Reid nodded, taking his hand. "S-sorry."

Morgan just shook his head. "Nothing to be sorry about." He uncapped a water bottle and pressed it into Reid's trembling hands.

"Kid, are you sure you don't want me to stay with you? At least for tonight? Hotch is right. You really shouldn't be alone right now."

Reid shook his head. "I'm just going to sleep. There wouldn't be anything for you to do. Can you just ask everyone to leave me alone for a while? Please? I'll be able to sleep better without interruptions."

Morgan looked like he didn't like the idea, like he couldn't quite tell if Reid was lying, but finally nodded. "I'll ask the team to give you some space." Then he added, with a wink, "But I can't make any guarantees about Garcia."

Reid almost smiled.

"Come on, kid." Morgan said, opening the car door. "Let's get you home."

**A/N: Next chapter, ****_Anger_****, to be published in one week.**


	2. Chapter 2 - Anger

Reid didn't bother turning on the lights in his apartment. He could see well enough. The sign from the Chinese restaurant across the street let in a harsh red glow. He didn't need more light than that.

Apparently he was wrong.

Passing his coffee table, Reid's shin struck a corner. He stumbled forward, cursing as his injured arm knocked into a bookshelf. Gripping pain spread from his shoulder to his fingertips. His uninjured hand scrambled for his wound, expecting to feel blood soaking his sleeve.

The fabric was dry and stiff. He felt the gauze wrapped around his upper arm under his sleeve. Though the muscle throbbed and ached, there was no outward sign of the desperate, cramping pain.

Rather than feel calmed by lack of physical evidence, Reid's temper began to rise, replacing the drowsiness that had been so overwhelming earlier. He couldn't even bleed properly.

At that moment, Reid became aware of his clenched teeth and shallow breathing. A cold was spreading through his chest like his heart was freezing. The trembling in his limbs hadn't abated since his episode on the side of the highway. He could feel the new bruise on his shin throbbing, spreading like fresh blood spills from a wound and pools on the floor—

No.

Reid forced his mind away from that thought. The memories were too fresh. They permeated his mind too easily. They still cut like knives and pierced like bullets—

NO!

Needing a distraction, Reid grabbed the nearest book from the shelf. The red light barely illuminated the words on the page. He started reading.

Something was wrong. His mind didn't absorb a single word.

Returning to the top of the page, Reid ran his finger across the paragraphs. Once again he reached the bottom of the page and couldn't remember any of it.

His temper flared. He heard a rushing sound like his apartment was suddenly filled with wind. Reid threw the book across the room. It hit the wall with a thump and landed open and facedown on the hard, cold floor. The pages would wrinkle. The spine would crack. What did it matter? That book was broken.

Reid grabbed another book from the shelf. He flipped through to a random page. He could see the words. They were organized into sentences and paragraphs. Why didn't they make sense? Why couldn't he grasp their meaning?

This one was broken, too. Reid heaved the book across the room to lie next to it's companion.

Reid didn't even bother opening the third book. It didn't make it across the room. It fell to the floor at Reid's feet, joined seconds later by an entire shelf of books that Reid scooped off with his arm.

Dancing out of the way lest his toes get crushed, Reid backed once more into the coffee table. He turned around and slammed his heel into the heavy wood. The table slid a couple of inches, creasing the rug underneath.

The trembling vanished. The pain was numbed. The thoughts barricaded behind this release.

Reid turned back to the bookshelf and grabbed another book. This time he threw it toward the window, toward that glaring red light. The next book was tossed at random over his shoulder. He heard the hollow thud as it landed on the vile coffee table.

He didn't pause or break. He grabbed book after book. A hurricane of paper and leather creating a symphony of percussion instruments. The thumping of books hitting walls, hitting furniture, knocking over the chessboard fueled Reid's rage.

The shelf was empty. The outlet was gone. There had to be more. He needed more.

Reid snatched his messenger bag from the floor and pulled it open. Inside was the book. The book.

The Narrative of John Smith by Sir Arthur Connan Doyle.

He opened the front cover and read the words. His mind pulled them in so easily and effortlessly, it was as if he had projected them on the page telepathically.

"Love is our true destiny. We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone - we find it with another" Thomas Merton.

White-hot fury engulfed Reid. What sort of sick person left such an intimate message before dying? It was sadistic!

He never loved her. How could he love someone that despicable? She built up his hopes. She spent two thousand four hundred and twelve hours making him believe she loved him. Then she went and got herself shot. She abandoned him with this pain. This all-consuming pain that was worse than anything he'd ever felt before.

It was worse than being suckerpunched by Benjamin Cyrus.

It was worse than being kicked over and over in the gut by Hotch.

It was worse than his father leaving.

It was worse than sending his mother away.

It was worse than dying of a seizure in Tobias Hankel's cabin.

It was worse than the withdrawals—

A cold suddenly crept through Reid, stilling the furious storm inside him.

He knew how to make the pain go away. He knew how to get back at her for abandoning him.

Closing the book, Reid replaced it back in his bag. He pulled the strap over his shoulder and turned to the door. He stepped out of the red light and into the dark hallway.

Reid knew exactly how to make it all better.

**A/N: Thank you so much! We are blown away by the likes and reviews, and we can't wait to see what you think of the rest of this story! We know this chapter is short, but we'll make up for it next week with _Bargaining part I_. **


	3. Chapter 3 - Bargaining Part I

Part I

The journey was familiar—not in a good way. It was like revisiting the site of an earthquake or hurricane. The aftermath was still visible if you knew what to look for.

Reid passed storefronts, crossed the street, made a left at the corner, followed the path he'd never thought he'd walk again. The thought tried to induce guilty feelings. He pushed them down, surprised that it took little effort to bury them beneath pain and sorrow and justification.

Part of Reid knew this was a bad idea, but a bigger part of him—the part of him that was blinded by pain and fueled by rage—didn't care. And that part had taken control.

A voice in the back of Reid's mind was telling him to go home, to get some sleep. Begging him not to let his exhaustion make rash decisions that he would regret later.

_And sleep? Are you letting your gray matter rest?_

Reid paused. The voice had spoken so clearly that he almost looked around for the source before realizing it was only in his mind. He recognized that voice, remembering that unique phrase she always used when she would remind him to take care of himself, to let his brain rest. What would she think if she could see him now?

But it didn't matter. She couldn't see him now. She would never see him again. And Reid couldn't stop seeing her lying on a concrete floor surrounded by her own gray matter. The cruel irony. He pressed forward.

Rounding the final corner, he saw what, or rather who, he had been searching for. The man was standing in an alleyway between two buildings smoking a joint. Reid recognized him instantly.

At Reid's approach, the man looked up. He immediately dropped the glowing joint and crushed it under his foot—a sign he was about to bolt.

"Wait!" Spencer tried to call out. Though his voice was no more than a rasp, it was enough to make the man pause.

"Spencer? Is that you?"

"Hey, Carter." Reid put his hands in his pockets and ducked into the alley.

"You about gave me a heart attack. I thought you was a cop."

Reid let out a dry, humorless chuckle at the words, tucking his hair behind his ear. He found some of his nerves relaxing at the familiar banter.

"Man, I haven't seen you around here in . . . what? Gotta be at least five years. Thought maybe you was dead. Or maybe you just found yourself a new supplier." The man laughed.

Just like that, Reid felt the awkwardness return. He didn't say anything, didn't offer any explanation for his long absence.

"You okay, kid? No offense, but you look like hell. And I know what hell looks like."

"Do you have any Dilaudid?" Reid finally asked timidly, keeping his eyes on the man's shoes.

There was a pause and Reid looked up. The man's eyes twitched from Reid to the alley's entrance as if waiting for the Dark Knight to swoop in and stop the exchange before it could even start.

"Please, Carter. I'm not looking for trouble. You know you can trust me."

His words seemed to help put the man at ease. "Might. How much you lookin' for?"

"As much as you can get me. Standard 10 mL vial if you've got it." The words brought back the itch. Reid resisted the urge to scratch at his inner elbow.

"Yeah. I probably got a couple vials." He studied Reid for a minute before making up his mind. "Yeah, wait here."

Carter disappeared into a doorway that was recessed in the brick wall and emerged a few minutes later holding two glass vials of clear liquid.

"How much?" Reid asked, staring hungrily at the vials.

"Two hundred apiece."

"Two hundred!" Reid shouted.

The man made hushing gestures. "Shhh. Come on, Spence. You know this stuff ain't cheap."

"That's double what you used to charge me."

"Things have gotten more complicated since I last saw you. The feds have been cracking down on businesses like mine. I had to raise prices."

"One-hundred," Reid said.

"Come on, man. I can't really negotiate these things."

"Two-fifty for both vials."

Carter hesitated, biting his lip. "Three-hundred."

"Deal." Reid held out his hand, noticing the trembling had returned, only this time it was for a different reason.

But then Reids fingers closed around the smooth glass vials. He slipped them into his pocket, comforted by their familiar weight.

Carter must have noticed the shaking because he asked, "Spencer? You sure you're okay, man?"

"I will be," Spencer answered. He pulled a small folded stack of bills out of his bag and counted out the correct amount. He handed it over without another word and made his way out of the alley.

Twenty minutes later he was back in his apartment, barricading the door and closing the blinds on the window. He stepped over fallen books and scattered chess pieces as he followed a familiar path to the bathroom. Once inside, he didn't bother turning on the lights.

This was the only time Reid would allow himself to be fully in the dark. Probably some subconscious impulse to hide his actions, he realized, but he didn't care. Normally the idea of complete darkness would terrify the genius. Tonight he was more afraid of himself than the dark.

Now that Reid had the drugs, he wanted to put them to work as quickly as possible. Reid had removed all needles from his house when he'd gotten clean, but ten months ago Maeve had suggested Vitamin B2 shots to help with his headaches. Which meant that Reid conveniently now had a supply of hypodermic needles in his medicine cabinet.

He started to roll-up his left sleeve but remembered that his shirt was still covered with blood and bile. Fumbling fingers quickly undid the buttons and he threw it in the direction of the bathtub. Next came the pants, the knees stained with dried blood—Maeve's blood. He paused only long enough to remove the belt before flinging them aside, as well.

He was tightening the belt around his left bicep when he was startled by the sound of a cell phone vibrating. Reid paused. It had come from the direction he'd thrown his pants. He must have left his phone in the pocket.

_What happened? Something just happened._

He grimaced as her voice spoke in his mind again. She could always tell. Even over the phone, she claimed she could read his body language, and now the memory of Maeve that lived in Reid's mind was aware that something was wrong.

Reid ignored Maeve's voice and tried to forget about the phone, returning his attention to the tourniquet. He flexed his fingers a few times, testing the tension and feeling the veins in his arm bulge.

He was peeling open the syringe package when the phone buzzed again. This time it didn't stop—not just a text message. He could see a muted glow coming from the corner of the room where the phone screen was lit up underneath the dark fabric of his pants.

Finally, the buzzing stopped. Sitting down on the toilet lid in nothing but his boxers and mismatched socks, Reid inserted the needle into the vial and tipped it upside-down, gently pulling back the plunger until the syringe filled with the smallest amount of clear liquid.

The phone rang again, buzzing incessantly from the floor. Reid looked from the needle to the phone and back again, waiting for the noise to stop. Who was trying so hard to reach him and why couldn't they just leave him alone?! After five rings it went to voicemail and the room fell silent once again.

A few seconds later his landline rang. The sound was deafening. Reid hoped it would stop, but it didn't. He realized that without automatic voicemail, this phone would just continue ringing indefinitely until it was answered or the caller gave up. Reid slammed the syringe down on the bathroom counter and stormed into his living room, his feet dodging broken glass and sharp chess pieces as he tore the tourniquet off his arm and threw it on the floor. This better be important.

"WHAT?" Reid shouted into the receiver.

"Reid? What's going on? Where were you and why aren't you answering your cell?" Morgan's voice was hard and concerned over the phone.

"What? Why?" Reid barely acknowledged speaking. His vision kept straying to the bathroom door.

"Garcia just called me. She stopped by your apartment five minutes ago. She said you weren't there."

Reid hesitated a second too long. "I was asleep. I didn't hear the door."

"Nope. Not buyin' it. Try again."

"Does it really matter? I'm here now." He wanted to get Morgan off the phone. Get back to business. Besides, speaking on the phone was dangerous. Look at how much time he spent talking to Maeve on the phone. Look at where that got her.

"Reid, talk to me. Tell me where you went."

He couldn't tell Morgan. He'd never told anyone.

_I'm a very good listener._

He hadn't even told Maeve. Would he have told her? If he had told her, maybe she would have realized that he was a useless addict who had knowingly risked damaging his brain: his most valuable asset, the part of him that she had fallen in love with. Maybe she would have rejected him. Maybe she would still be alive.

"Reid?"

"Fine. I went for a walk, okay? I just wanted to clear my head."

"A walk."

"Yup."

"At three in the morning."

He stayed silent.

"Reid, anytime you want to come up with a better answer, I'm right here."

This wasn't the first time Morgan had said those words to him. It wasn't even the first time he'd said those words to him in this context. Reid suspected that Morgan knew exactly where he'd gone and what he planned to do. It was like a secret message. An inside joke.

_Thomas Merton. He's the one thing you can never take from us._

Secret messages were another danger.

"I'm sorry, Morgan. I don't know what you want me to say. I went for a walk but I'm home now. You can stop worrying. I'm fine. Tell Garcia I'm fine."

He was met with silence.

Reid moved to the window. The phone cord stretched to its maximum distance. Reid reached out with one hand and parted the curtains.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Someone was pounding on his door.

**A/N: Sorry-not-sorry for the cliffhanger. _Bargaining Part II_ will be out next week and we'll find out who is at the door. Again, thank you, readers, for your support.**


	4. Chapter 4 - Bargaining Part II

Part II

Someone was pounding on his door.

Reid jumped.

"REID?" Hotch's voice was coming from the other side of the door.

"Morgan, you called Hotch?!" Reid said into the phone, scrambling to find some clothes, a robe, anything to cover himself.

"We're worried about you, man." Morgan's voice came from the phone while his boss's voice continued to call to him from the hall.

"Reid, open the door. I need to see that you are okay."

"I gotta go." He slammed down the receiver and dashed toward the bathroom.

Reid's bathrobe hung on the back of his bathroom door. He flicked on the light out of habit as he raced into the room and reached around the door. His eyes landed on the syringe, still resting on the counter. If he let Hotch in . . . If Hotch saw the syringe . . .

Pulling the robe on, Reid grabbed the loaded needle and vials of Dilaudid. He could still hear Hotch pounding on the apartment door. Frantically he shoved them into the pocket of his robe, knowing it was a terrible hiding place but hoping he could convince Hotch to leave before he discovered the contraband.

"No offense, Hotch, but it's been a long day and I'd really appreciate it if everyone would respect my wishes to be left alone. I need to sleep." Reid didn't bother trying to keep the irritation out of his tone.

"With all due respect, we both know you aren't sleeping. I've already spoken with Morgan and Garcia. Now open the door." Hotch sounded angry and Reid could tell he wasn't going to give up or leave.

Reluctantly, after making sure his robe was tied securely, Reid turned the deadbolt and opened the door.

"Can I come in?" Hotch asked politely, eyes flickering behind Reid into the dark apartment.

Reid knew it would be pointless to argue and stepped aside.

Both men stood in silence for a moment while Hotch's eyes took in the destruction.

Hotch finally spoke. "Garcia stopped by earlier and said you weren't home."

"Yeah, and like I already told Morgan, I needed some air so I went for a walk." Reid was too tired to come up with anything better, and he knew Hotch would see right through it, anyway.

"Reid, do you think I don't know what's going on?" Hotch asked skeptically.

"Whatever you think you know, Hotch, it's late and I'm tired and I just lost the most important person to me in the world. So can you just tell me why you're here so I can go back to bed?" Reid's veins were still itching and he could feel his heart pounding.

"I just want to make sure you aren't going to do something you'll regret," Hotch began, "It's common for victims of violent crimes to turn to drugs and alcohol for relief, especially if they have been—"

"You think I'm a junkie?! You think I'm gonna give up five and a half years of sobriety and start using Dilaudid again?!" Reid feigned indignation, hoping Hotch couldn't tell that this was exactly what he was about to do.

"—injured." Hotch finished. "I was going to say that people who have suffered a loss and are injured have been known to use drugs to treat the pain, and some of them end up self-medicating or overdosing."

Reid's face flushed. But he was still fuming when Hotch suddenly asked the question he'd been dreading.

"Reid, are you high right now?" Hotch was employing a strategy they frequently used to catch suspects off their guard.

"What?" Reid froze, trying not to react.

"Have you been using Dilaudid tonight?" Hotch restated the question, scrutinizing Reid's behavior.

"I can't believe you'd ask me that!" Reid obfuscated, starting to panic.

"That's not an answer," Hotch stated.

Reid pulled up the sleeves on his robe and thrust his arms at his boss, showing the lack of track marks. "Satisfied? Or do you want me to pee in a cup?"

"I want you to answer the question," Hotch responded calmly.

"What if I am? After everything that happened tonight, would it really be so—"

"You're answering the question with a question." Hotch pointed out.

"I didn't realize I was being profiled." Reid spat back.

"Yes or no?" Hotch demanded again.

"NO!" Reid screamed. "Alright? No. I haven't taken it."

Reid realized his mistake immediately. He wouldn't have made such a careless slip if he hadn't been so tired, but he couldn't think straight right now. It was too much to hope that Hotch hadn't noticed.

Hotch didn't bother asking what "it" was. He side-stepped Reid, heading toward the blinding light of the bathroom.

"Wait, Hotch . . . " The half-hearted attempt didn't make Hotch slow down in the least. If anything, Hotch quickened his pace, stepping over fallen books and crunching on glass shards.

Reid remained frozen in the dark living room, watching his boss search his apartment.

This shouldn't be happening. Hotch shouldn't be searching his apartment at three-thirty in the morning. Maeve shouldn't be dead. He shouldn't be hiding a bottle of Dilaudid in the pocket of his robe. Maeve shouldn't be dead.

They should be together, discussing philosophy, playing with blindfolds, making jokes about Euclidean Geometry.

_Every Penrose triangle has its thorn._

"Reid!"

He looked up to see Hotch standing in front of him. He'd spaced out? How long?

"Where is it?" Hotch asked holding up the empty packaging from the syringe Reid had opened earlier that night.

A block of ice landed somewhere in the bottom of Reid's gut. How could he have forgotten about the packaging? He could lie. He could say it was left over from . . . months ago. From the B2 shots. With the apartment in this state, Hotch might buy it.

No. A regular, non-FBI person might believe the lie. A seasoned profiler like Hotch would see through the story in half a heartbeat.

There was a firm grip on Reid's shoulder. Not a hard or painful grip. Hotch guided him to the couch and pressed down until Reid collapsed into the cushions. The bottles and syringe clinked against each other in their pocket. Reid felt Hotch's hand tense on his shoulder. He slowly withdrew it then moved to sit on the coffee table directly in front of him.

"Spencer, I know it's hard—"

"Stop it. Just stop it." Reid's voice came out as a growl. He flung his arms up knocking Hotch's hand out of the way. "How could you know?"

There was no immediate answer. Reid looked at his boss's face and realized what Hotch had been about to say.

"You were going to bring up Haley, weren't you?" Reid said, his fury from before boiling up again. "You were going to compare Maeve to Haley. You were going to compare the woman you knew since high school, the woman you married, the woman who bore you a son, to the girl I barely got one hundred days with?"

Hotch's face remained unchanged except for a slight crease in his forehead.

"She was your ex-wife, Hotch. You gave her up. You drove her away. You made the choice to abandon her. You'd already moved on when she . . . when . . . "

Reid trailed off, suddenly realizing what he was saying. The ice in his gut spread to his head, to his hands and his feet. It was like being doused in ice water.

Finally, Hotch spoke. "I never stopped loving her. I still love her. Just like you will love Maeve for the rest of your life. We don't stop loving people just because they aren't in our lives anymore."

Reid looked at his hands rather than at Hotch's face.

"I still feel responsible for Haley's death." Hotch continued. "I would give anything to have her back. I look back and think, if I'd quit the FBI or if I'd worked harder to find Foyet, maybe she'd still be alive."

Reid unconsciously nodded, recognizing the sentiments.

"I can't change what happened. All I can do is try and be better. I have Jack. I know Haley would be so proud to see how he's grown."

The hopeful feelings vanished. Hotch had Jack. Reid had nobody.

"It's cruel that you had so little time with Maeve. I could see how happy she made you. And I wish I could tell you that there is an easy way to get through it, to feel better. There are ways to manage the pain and depression, but I can tell you that the method you are considering"—he gave Reid a knowing look—"won't work. Maeve wouldn't want you to go down that road. None of us want to see you go through that again."

It wasn't fair. What Hotch was telling him wasn't fair. Hotch had never even met Maeve. He'd never spoken to her. He'd barely seen her alive. But, then again, what Hotch was saying made sense, and Reid knew he was right. Maeve wouldn't have wanted this for him.

They sat in silence for a long moment while Reid tried to put off the inevitable.

Finally reaching into his pocket, Reid took out the vials and syringe, still filled with clear liquid. He held them out to Hotch. The older man took them from Reid without a word.

Instead of relief, a heaviness settled in Reid's chest. He'd just handed his escape over to Hotch. He wished he could hand over the itchiness in his veins and the sickening guilt in his stomach.

In that moment, he hated Hotch. He hated Hotch more than he hated Gideon for leaving or his Father for abandoning him.

"Is that all of it?" Hotch asked.

Reid could only nod as angry tears spilled down his face.

Hotch stood up and walked to the bathroom. Reid heard water running and the flushing of the toilet, and when Hotch returned, the drugs had disappeared.

The hand reappeared on Reid's shoulder. He shrugged it off. "I know it doesn't feel like it right now, but I promise it gets easier," Hotch said. "It's going to take time. Don't worry about work. Your job will be waiting for you when you feel ready. Take as much time as you need to heal."

Reid stared at the coffee table, not bothering to acknowledge Hotch's words. Finally, he heard Hotch leave, closing the door and plunging the room back into darkness. Reid was alone again. And now he had no way to escape. He curled into a ball on the couch and cried.

**A/N: Up next, _Depression_. Reid isn't the only one suffering. Readers, thanks again for supporting our story.**


	5. Chapter 5 - Depression - Hotch

**A/N This stage of the story ****(Depression) ****will be 6 mini-chapters that will briefly follow the people in Reid's life and how they are coping. They area all there for Reid in their own ways, even if he doesn't know it. **

Hotch reached the end of the case file he'd been reading and realized he hadn't actually taken in any of it. Looking out his open office door at the rest of his team, he could tell they were all distracted by the events that had taken place over the last week—worried about Reid—but he was the unit chief and couldn't afford to let his workload slip. But that didn't mean he wasn't worried about Reid, too. He probably had more reason than most to be worried about the boy.

His mind drifted to the small evidence bag locked in his desk drawer—the bag containing a syringe and two empty Dilaudid vials that he had confiscated from Reid. He had emptied the drugs into Reid's toilet, but had known he couldn't leave the empty bottles or needle in the house so he'd taken them home. He needed to find a way to dispose of them safely and in a way that wouldn't be traced back to Spencer. That was the last thing Reid needed right now.

Hotch was startled away from his thoughts by a knock at the door. He looked up to see Morgan standing in the doorway.

"How's he doing?" Morgan asked without preamble.

"I was hoping you could tell me." Hotch replied with a sigh, closing the case file and placing it on a stack on the corner of his desk.

"He's not answering your calls either?" Morgan asked.

"No." Hotch answered. "I'm guessing he's still pretty upset about what happened last week."

"Can you blame him?" Morgan asked. "Hotch, I've never seen the kid form that kind of emotional attachment to anyone before. This has to be killing him."

"That, and . . . " Hotch trailed off, trying to decide how much to reveal. "Morgan what I'm about to tell you needs to stay between us. Understood?"

Morgan nodded, looking confused, as Hotch motioned for him to close the office door.

Hotch unlocked his desk drawer. He pulled out the evidence bag and handed it to Morgan.

Morgan examined the contents, his expression darkening, and then he closed his eyes and exhaled as if trying to control his temper. But when he spoke it was in a resigned tone. "So we were right."

"Yes."

"You found these at his house that night?" Morgan asked in an incredulous tone.

"He had them in his pocket. I convinced him to give them to me. Then I flushed the contents and removed the bottles and needle from his apartment." Hotch's kept his tone steady. He just needed to give Morgan the facts without any personal bias or judgement.

"You think he's using again?" Morgan asked.

"No." Hotch answered confidently. "But I don't think we're out of the woods yet. Reid is grieving, depressed, and isolating himself. He made it clear that he doesn't want anything to do with me, but he is going to need someone if he is going to get through this."

"How can I help?" Morgan asked eagerly.

"Just keep trying to get through to him. You know he thinks of you as a brother. See if you can get any response. I've also written to Gideon."

Morgan nodded. "Good idea. Reid always looked up to Gideon, connected with him. And after what happened to Gideon's girlfriend back in '07, he might be able to sympathize with Reid. Anything else?"

"One more favor, if you're willing. But it would have to be off the record."

"If it'll help Reid, name it." Morgan answered.

"Make that"—Hotch nodded toward the evidence bag in Morgan's hands—"disappear. I don't want it tied back to Reid and I don't want the rest of the team hearing about it."

"Consider it done." Morgan answered, tucking the small bag into his jacket pocket.

Hotch felt a little bit of the worry and concern dissipate as the evidence bag disappeared.

"He'll get through this, Morgan." Hotch opened his office door to let Morgan exit. "It's going to take some time, and he is going to need our support, but I'm hoping the worst is behind him."

"Me, too. I'll keep you posted if I hear anything." Morgan answered turning to leave.

Hotch returned to his desk and picked up his cell phone. He dialed Reid's number, just as he had done twice a day for the past week, even though he knew there would be no answer. He didn't bother leaving a voicemail this time. Just hung up and tucked the phone back in his pocket, pulling the next case file from the stack on his desk and trying to force himself to focus on it.


	6. Chapter 6 - Depression - Gideon

**A/N: Bonus mini-chapter tonight, just for fun. Enjoy. :)**

Gideon frowned at the letter resting on his wooden kitchen table. He'd known this day would come eventually. Yet he still felt irritation at the letter's presence.

Perhaps it was because he recognized Hotch's meticulous handwriting instead of Spencer's untidy scrawl. If one member of the team reached out to him after all these years, he would have bet on Spencer.

Sighing at the inevitable, Gideon picked up the letter and tore open the flap. He removed the handwritten page and shook it open, his free hand placing his reading glasses on his nose.

Hotch didn't open with much of a heartfelt greeting. Instead he jumped right into a summary of recent events.

So, Spencer had fallen in love. Gideon's mind flashed with memories of Reid's attempts at courtship. He smiled as he remembered trying to encourage the young man to pursue JJ and his awkward attempts to flirt with Lila Archer. Despite the rough beginning, Reid had apparently found love in the end . . . only to lose it in the most horrific way imaginable.

The more Gideon read, the more his heart sank. By the time he reached the valediction, he felt himself overcome with feelings he'd not experienced since Sarah's death.

Images of walking into his apartment and finding Sarah's body penetrated Gideon's mind. Time had dulled the painful memories. Though they once cut like knives, their blades were now blunt. Gideon could remember Sarah without overwhelming grief.

Spencer's eidetic memory meant he would remember his love's death in sharp detail for the rest of his life. The pain would never fade.

It was that thought that sealed Gideon's decision not to contact his protege. He knew Hotch's intent with the letter was to persuade him to reach out and comfort Spencer, but Gideon believed any ministration from him would be met with animosity. He hadn't left under the best circumstances. He didn't want to add to Reid's grief.

Gideon tucked the letter back into the envelope with a sigh. Perhaps a time would come when he would contact Spencer again. There was still plenty of time for reunions.

Reaching for his binoculars, his ears perked up at a familiar birdcall. A Nelson's sparrow, if he wasn't mistaken.


	7. Chapter 7 - Depression - JJ

**A/N: Another week, another addition to the story. Short but sweet.**

JJ stared at the phone. She waited for her fingers to dial the numbers. She could do this. Deep breath. Just make the call.

Spence had shut himself off from the world, from the team. She wanted so badly to help him, but he wouldn't give her a chance. He wouldn't answer his phone or return her calls. He wouldn't open his door when she visited. Her best friend had cut himself off from the world.

JJ had spent days racking her brain over how to help him. Would Henry and Michael cheer him up? Or would seeing Uncle Spence so depressed be harmful to her little boys?

At last the solution came to her. She knew something she could do for Spence. It was a task more difficult than she wanted to admit, but it was important and meaningful.

"How's it goin'?" Will asked from the doorway behind her.

JJ turned and looked at her husband. She gave him a weak, guilty smile.

"Still haven't made the call?"

"I'm scared," JJ said. "What if she reacts poorly? What if the news upsets her more than not hearing from him?"

Will sighed then moved forward to sit next to her on the edge of the bed. He reached out and rubbed her back. "Those are just excuses. Quit makin' up stories in your head."

"Why do I find this harder than calling the families of murder victims?"

Will smiled sympathetically. "You can do this."

JJ nodded, then dialed. She put the phone up to her ear and listened to the buzzing rings. Then a receptionist answered.

_"Bennington Sanitarium, how may I direct your call?"_

"My name is Jennifer Jareau. I need to speak with the doctor of one of your patients. Diana Reid. I'm calling on behalf of Diana's son, Spencer."

"One moment please."

In the brief moments while on hold, JJ heard Micheal start fussing in another room. Will squeezed JJ's shoulder, then silently got up and left the room to tend to their baby, closing the door behind him.

_"Ms. Jareau?"_

It took effort not to automatically correct the title. "Hi, yes. With whom am I speaking?"

_"My name is Dr. Norman. I oversee the care of Diana Reid. You have a message from her son, Spencer?" _There was a note of hopeful concern in the doctor's voice that JJ found familiar. It was the same tone used by the families of kidnap victims.

"Yes, I work with Spencer. I know he writes his mother letters every day. I'm sure it's been some time since she's heard from him."

_"That is correct. The lack of communication has left Diana quite upset. Is Spencer well?"_

So Spence had cut off communication with his mother along with everyone else. A small part of JJ had hoped he was still communicating with her at least. His depression must run deeper than JJ realized.

"Dr. Norman, can you give Diana a message?"

There was a pause. Then the doctor spoke. _"It depends on the nature of that message."_

How much had Spencer told his mother about Maeve? After the Kingfisher case, she knew he'd been far more discreet in his letters. Knowing Maeve had a stalker, JJ wondered if Spencer had given his mother any details at all.

"Can you tell Diana that Spencer is fine. He's struggling with a personal loss. As soon as he is able, I'm sure his letters will resume." She paused then hesitantly asked, "Will she understand?"

_"I'll pass on the message and reassure her. Thank you for letting us know, Ms. Jareau. Please tell Spencer that we are sorry for his loss and wish him a quick recovery."_

"I will. Thank you, Dr. Norman."

They said customary farewells and hung up. JJ let out a huge sigh, feeling a weight rise off her shoulders and euphoria fill her chest.

Spence may not let JJ help him directly, but certainly, this small act of kindness would be some relief. Spence's mom meant more to him than anyone else in the world. When he was finally able to open up again, he would be grateful to know his mother was cared for.

JJ set her phone on the table then left to find her husband and youngest son.


	8. Chapter 8 - Depression - Rossi and Emily

**A/N: What?! Another bonus chapter? We're on a roll! Hope you all like it.**

Rossi leaned back in his chair. He held a tumbler in one hand and a familiar gold charm bracelet in the other. Soft jazz music played in the background. He took a sip of the scotch, feeling the physical burn that, unfortunately, had no effect on the emotional turmoil he wanted to quench.

He thought of old cases, former wives, lost lovers. Life seemed to be a never-ending stream of loss and heartache. It was a hard truth Reid was starting to realize. The kid would either come out on the other side bitter and warped, or he'd learn how to cope and move on, just like Rossi had been forced to do once upon a time.

A buzzing interrupted the serene atmosphere of the evening. Rossi sighed. He set down the gold charm bracelet and reached for his phone. The team was on stand down for the weekend, but in an emergency, Hotch could still call them into the office.

He was surprised to see an unknown caller when he looked at his screen. Experience told him it would either be a telemarketer, a scammer, a psychopath, or—least likely—an acquaintance calling from an unfamiliar number. The fourth option was the only reason Rossi answered.

"Special Agent David Rossi." Using his title generally scared off the scammers and intimidated the telemarketers. He couldn't predict what effect it would have on the psychopaths with their varying tendencies. An acquaintance would roll their eyes at his inflated ego.

_"Hey Dave," _the voice of Emily Prentiss greeted him.

"Emily? Don't tell me your calling from London. It must be . . . " He tried to guess the hour on the other side of the world.

_"It's nearly six in the morning."_

"And you're awake?"

She laughed. _"I could say the same thing to you. You know, the older you get, the more you need your sleep."_

"Who are you calling old?" Rossi quipped good-naturedly.

Emily didn't answer and Rossi knew the conversation was about to take a serious turn.

_"I heard about Reid."_

Rossi set down the scotch next to the bracelet. His original intention with the drink had been to avoid thinking about Reid. Now he would be forced to talk about it.

_"Rossi? You still there?"_

"Yeah. I'm still here."

_"How is he?"_

Rossi sighed and rubbed his brow. "I honestly couldn't tell you. Nobody has seen or talked to him in days. If I had to guess, I'd say he's not handling it well."

There was a pause before Emily replied. "That explains why he hasn't been answering my calls."

"Don't take it personally."

_"How is the rest of the team?"_

"We're all worried about him. You remember how he was when you came back after being dead?"

_"You mean when he lashed out at JJ and admitted his drug habit out loud?"_

Rossi winced. "I don't think a group cooking class is going to fix things this time."

That comment actually elicited a chuckle from Emily.

"Why'd you call me, anyway?" Rossi asked.

_"I wanted to check on Ried."_

"Yes, but did you why call _me_? Morgan is his best friend. Garcia's made it her life goal to cheer him up. Hotch was the last person to speak to him. JJ is his closest thing to family. Even Blake probably knows more than I do. Yet you called me."

The conversation paused again. Rossi reached for his scotch glass and took a sip in the time before Emily answered.

_"I might miss you guys, but I really don't miss being around profilers."_

Now it was Rossi's turn to laugh.

_"Rossi, do you realize how much the kid looks up to you?"_

That was not the answer Rossi had been expecting. He couldn't answer, so instead, he took another sip of his drink.

_"At some point in the future, Reid is going to need someone to help him move forward. While he may be close to the rest of the team, he looks up to you. When he struggles, you can be the one to guide him. He'll listen to you."_

Rossi had no idea what to say. Luckily, Emily didn't give him the chance to respond.

_"I gotta go. There's a situation with Ukraine."_

"Thanks for calling, Emily."

"Keep me posted on Reid," Emily said before hanging up.

Rossi stared at the phone for a moment longer. Then he downed the last of the scotch in one swallow and got to his feet.

He replayed Emily's phone call in his head. He tried to picture Reid coming to him for advice. That didn't seem likely. The kid wasn't really the type to seek out help from his elders.

Despite that, perhaps Rossi would keep an eye on Reid. If he noticed anything, saw some way he could help, he'd step in.

Rossi turned off the lights and shut off the music as he headed up to his room, still thinking.

The kid was too young to turn into a bitter old man. Perhaps it took an old man to ensure Reid made it through this. Rossi could do that. Emily was right. Rossi could step up if his help was needed.


	9. Chapter 9 - Depression - Morgan-Garcia

**A/N: Happy American Thanksgiving! Here's a couple more chapters to celebrate our long weekend away from work! **

"Hello?"

"Baby Girl? Is that you?" Morgan asked the fuzzy hair band that was barely visible above the stack of bags and boxes in the woman's arms, obscuring her face.

"Derek? Oh thank goodness! Can you reach my keys?" Garcia asked sounding relieved.

"Tell me where—" Morgan started to ask.

"Front pocket of my purse." She answered, trying to shift some of her bundles to give him access to the purse dangling from her arm.

He quickly found her house keys and unlocked the door to her apartment, holding it open so she could enter.

"What is all this?" Morgan asked, taking a large wicker basket from the top of the stack of parcels and setting it on the floor. "You know you could have asked me to drive the get-away-car if you were going to knock over a Costco."

"I think I may have gone a little overboard." Penelope said, setting down her bags on the kitchen table.

Morgan reached into the first bag and pulled out a fancy looking can of coffee. "I always thought you were more of a tea girl."

"Oh, the things you don't know about me, my love," she answered seductively taking the coffee from him. "But it's actually not for me."

"Ah." Morgan said, catching on as he peered into the other bags scattered around the kitchen. "Reid."

"Have you heard anything from him?" she asked, pausing to look up at Morgan. "I-I keep calling and I've gone to his apartment every morning on my way to work, but he never answers his door, and he won't return any of my phone calls or texts and—"

"—I know." Morgan said, cutting off her ramblings. "I'm worried about him, too. We all are. But we need to give him some time and space."

"I can't imagine what he must be going through right now." Garcia said, a slight catch in her voice. "I keep thinking about him all alone in his apartment with nobody to talk to and what if he is sick or hurt and we don't even know and there's nobody there to take care of him . . . "

They both stood in silence for a moment before Garcia spoke again.

"Was it terrible? When it, you know . . . happened?"

"Yeah," Morgan answered softly, his mind involuntarily calling up the memories of the events that had occurred that night. If he could remember it all in that much detail, he couldn't imagine how it must be for Reid.

"I keep thinking about how it was when my parents died." Garcia said, before quickly adding, "A-and I know. I know it's not the same thing. But I just keep thinking about it, you know?"

"Yeah, I know, Baby Girl." Morgan said, reaching out to take her hand.

"And I just wish there was something I could do to help him feel better." Her eyes filled with tears behind her glasses. She squeezed Morgan's hand.

"Oh! Geez! I'm sorry," Garcia said trying to snap out of the depressing mood. "You came all the way over here. Did you need something?"

Morgan reached in the nearest bag, taking out a coffee mug. It was just something to fidget with while he talked.

"I'm also on a Reid-related mission. I need a favor, baby girl."

She reached out and took the mug from him, putting it back in the bag with its mates. "Whatever you need. Just say the word and I am on it."

"Hotch called. He spoke to Maeve's parents. The funeral is scheduled for next week."

They both sat in silence, thinking about what those words meant. With most cases, they distanced themselves enough from the victims that they avoided the funerals. Being invited wasn't rare, but actually attending was.

"Has anyone told Reid?" Garcia asked.

"We've tried, but we're not sure he's gotten the message. Blake is heading over later to check on him."

Garcia nodded. "Good. That's good. She'll get through to him."

Her voice turned frosty.

"I mean the rest of us have called and left baskets of cheering-up gifts and tried to break down his door, but maybe Blake will have better luck because . . . she . . . " Garcia's face had gotten darker as she ranted but now she dwindled before she could say what she was actually thinking. She just stood there glaring at nobody in particular.

"That favor?" Morgan reminded, "I need you to not be jealous."

Garcia gave an undignified snort.

"Hey, none of that. Blake is going to go over there and she's going to talk to Reid. She's going to get through to him and make sure he comes to the funeral. He's going to respond to her in a way he won't with the rest of us. That doesn't mean he loves you any less. It just means that right now, when Reid is feeling like this, he needs someone who understands him." Morgan grabbed the mug once more and held it up. "Eventually, when he's feeling better, he will be so grateful for your baskets of gifts and your concern and friendship. But right now, he needs a different kind of help that Hotch thinks Blake can offer. Can you be okay with that?"

A pout appeared on Garcia's face before relaxing into acceptance. "He'll be at the funeral?"

"Blake is going to talk to him."

Seeing that she wasn't entirely pacified, Morgan set down the mug then reached out for a hug.

"I'm just so worried about him," Garcia said into Morgan's shoulder.

"I know, baby girl. I know. We'll do everything we can to help him."

Garcia stepped back and looked up into the face of her Chocolate Adonis. "My turn for a favor."

"I'm not posing for your photoshopped pictures," Morgan joked.

"As if! It's called photoshop because you don't have to pose." Garcia rolled her eyes. "But will you stay and help me fill these baskets?"

"There's nowhere I'd rather be."


	10. Chapter 10 - Depression - Blake

**A/N: . . . And another Thanksgiving bonus chapter! **

Alex ascended the steps to Reid's apartment armed with nothing but two tall coffees and her own stubbornness. Hotch had asked her to reach out to Reid. Blake wasn't sure why exactly Hotch thought she would be able to succeed where all the others had failed and quite frankly, she wondered if it might not be better to just leave the poor boy alone and let him work through this in his own way. But she did concede that it would be good for Reid to attend Maeve's funeral—or at least have the option to attend if he wanted to—which was why she agreed to Hotch's request in the end.

She reached Reid's door and knocked gently. When nobody answered she tried again, this time calling out his name through the door.

"Reid? It's Alex. Can I come in."

Still nothing. She had a feeling he was expecting her to leave, but she wasn't going to give up that easily.

"Spencer, I know you can hear me. And I know you don't want to see anyone right now, but I- I'm not here to try to cheer you up or make you feel better or check-up on you. . ." Alex listened for movement, and was surprised to hear the gentle click of a lock turning.

She tentatively reached out and tested the doorknob, which turned easily and allowed the door to swing open.

The apartment was dark and stuffy. Curtains were drawn across all the windows and books lay scattered on the floor in disarray. Blake resisted the urge to cover her nose at the ripe smell emanating from the man huddled against the wall in the entryway. A sparse beard was growing on his normally smooth face and his greasy hair hung in a lank curtain across his forehead and eyes. She wondered how long it had been since he had showered or gotten dressed.

"Hi," Blake said, looking down at him.

Reid glanced up at her briefly, but didn't speak. He pulled his bathrobe tighter around his middle.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, sitting down next to him and handing him one of the coffees. He took it but didn't drink. He seemed satisfied to just stare at it.

"So," she began, after a few minutes. "I, uh . . . I came over here because . . . Well, I wasn't sure if you knew that Maeve's funeral is tomorrow."

Even in the dark, Blake could see his adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard and turned his face away from her. But she continued anyway.

"Her parents called Hotch. They said they've been trying to reach you to let you know about the funeral arrangements but you haven't been answering your phone."

"I don't want to go to her funeral," he said in a cracked voice.

"Okay," Blake said carefully. "Okay, you don't have to go if you don't want to."

It was like trying to coax a kitten out of a closet without spooking it.

"But I think you should go," she added when he didn't respond. "I think it would be good for you, and I think Maeve would want you to be there. You were important to her, and I think she would want you to be a part of this."

Reid absentmindedly took a sip of the coffee and brushed his hair out of his eyes.

"How's your arm?" she asked, changing the subject.

He shrugged.

"Can I look at it?" If he wasn't showering she doubted he was changing the bandages regularly.

He slipped one arm out of his bathrobe and pulled up the sleeve of his t-shirt. She examined the bandage that was no longer the clean white it had been at the hospital.

"This bandage could do with a change. Would you like my help?"

He shrugged again, which she took as a yes, and went to his bathroom to look for some antiseptic and clean gauze.

She quickly found what she was looking for and returned to find Reid sitting up drinking his coffee.

"Did you know that the word funeral comes from the latin word _funus_ meaning 'burial rites'?" he said as she removed the old bandage.

Blake couldn't help but smile in relief. Even at a time like this he was spouting off random facts. He may be injured and broken, but he was still Reid. She finished securing the new gauze with some tape and sat back against the wall.

"Look, you don't have to decide right now. All I'm asking is that you think about it. The funeral might provide an opportunity for closure, a chance to say goodbye."

They both seemed lost in thought for a few minutes drinking coffee until Reid finally spoke in a choked voice.

"I don't think I can go by myself."

"Okay," Blake answered. She knew the rest of the team were all planning on attending in support of Reid, but she wasn't sure if sharing that information would make him more or less likely to stay home. "Would you like me to ask Hotch or Morgan or someone to go with you?"

Reid tensed visibly at the suggestion, so Blake hurried on.

"—or I could go with you, if you'd like. Whatever makes this easier."

Reid hesiated.

"I don't think I'm ready to talk to anyone. But maybe, um, maybe you could give me a ride?"

"Sure," Blake answered kindly. "I can do that."

"I know everyone is worried about me, but—" Reid began, but Blake held up a hand to stop him.

"You don't need to explain. They'll understand," she said. "You've been through something traumatic and it's going to take time to heal. You're friends just want to make sure you know you don't have to go through it alone."

She let him absorb this while she stood up and straightened her blouse and pants.

"The funeral starts at 11:00, so I'll stop by to pick you up at 10:30, okay?"

Reid nodded. Blake hoped he wouldn't change his mind by tomorrow morning.

As she turned to go, she heard Reid call out to her.

"Alex, will you give Hotch a message from me?"

"Of course," she answered, curious.

"Tell him I'm sorry about the other night. I know he was just trying to help. Can you tell him that?" Reid looked up at her from the floor with wet eyes.

"Spencer, whatever it was, I'm sure Hotch has already forgotten about it." She answered confidently with one hand on the doorknob. She wanted to pry, but knew it was none of her business. At the pathetic look on his face she added, "But I'll tell him."

He looked relieved, more relaxed than he had been when she'd arrived. Blake closed the door and heard it lock behind her.

She was already dialing Hotch's number as she descended the stairs to the exit.

**A/N: Next up, the last chapter of the story: Acceptance. We've almost reached the end of this journey. Thank you all so much for your reviews (which we love to read). We hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as we've enjoyed writing it. **


	11. Chapter 11 - Acceptance

**A/N: Here we are at the end. Thank you to everyone who has read and appreciated our writing. We look forward to releasing more stories in the future. **

Reid sat in Blake's car watching the crowd gather around the casket and take their seats. He still wasn't sure he wanted to do this. He liked to think that Maeve would be glad he was here. After showering and shaving he had decided to wear the same scarf he had worn on the night they almost met for the first time. Even though neither he nor Maeve really cared about appearances, he felt it would be a nice gesture.

"You okay?" Blake asked.

Reid didn't answer. No, he wasn't okay. He was trying not to think about where he was or what he was doing here. None of this was right. But he knew Blake was waiting for him to get out of the car.

He watched the clock on the dashboard turn over to 11:05. If he could stall until after the services had begun, maybe he could avoid talking to anyone. He had already spotted Morgan and Garcia among the mourners and felt certain that JJ, Rossi, and Hotch were probably there, too. He didn't want to see them. Maybe he should just leave.

"Spencer?" Blake asked, reaching over to touch his arm. "What are you thinking about?"

"I was thinking about the traditional funeral in South Indonesia which requires the sacrifice of a water buffalo that is said to carry the spirit of the dead to the afterlife. Until the ritual has been completed—which may require weeks or even months—the family continues to act as though the person is still alive and merely sick or asleep," he said.

"You know, you're going to miss the whole funeral if you don't go soon," Blake said, undeterred by his comment. "Wouldn't that defeat the purpose of coming all this way?"

Reid sighed and ran a hand over his face, tucking his hair behind his ear.

"I don't want to talk to anyone," He admitted.

"Okay. You don't have to talk to anyone. You can just go and listen if you want." Blake reassured him.

"But Morgan and Garcia and . . ." Reid trailed off, hoping she understood.

"I'll go and sit with them. They won't try to talk to you—well, Garcia might try." She teased. "But you can just stay in the back where nobody will bother you. I'll do my best to convince them to give you some space if they notice you. Deal?"

Reluctantly he nodded and reached for the door handle, as she did the same. He gave her a head start before stepping onto the springy grass and making his way toward the funeral.

Reid stopped walking when he reached the edge of the crowd. He still hadn't looked up, hadn't made eye contact with a single mourner. He could hear them whispering. His anxiety-filled mind imagined all the comments were about him.

_He's the one who forced her out of hiding._

_He couldn't catch her stalker in time._

_He let her die._

He shouldn't be here. He didn't deserve to be here. Without another thought, Reid turned to go.

Someone was blocking his path.

Aaron Hotchner was dressed in his usual dark suit and tie, but with a more subdued expression than he normally had at the office.

"Spencer, I'm glad you made it," Hotch said quietly reaching out to place a hand on Reid's shoulder. Reid noticed Blake watching them out of the corner of her eye and wondered if she had orchestrated the interception.

Reid had no choice but to turn back around and listen to the man who was delivering the eulogy.

" . . . one of the greatest minds of her generation. She earned a Ph.D. in genetics at age 22 and was passionate about the work she was doing at Mendel University. But those who knew her best will remember not only her genius and intellect but also her clever wit and especially her ability to uplift everyone she met. She is survived by . . ."

Reid tuned out, thinking about the two-thousand, four-hundred and twelve hours he'd spent with her, recalling every word she'd ever said to him. He was sure there were other people who had known her longer, but he felt like he had known her best—connected with her in a unique way. They had bonded over their mutual status as misfits and geniuses. She had fallen in love with his brain—literally—and he had fallen in love with her mind and her voice. He hadn't needed to see her to know she was the most beautiful person in the world.

He suddenly realized that he was staring at the coffin. Maeve was in that box. She was really gone. He would never hear her voice again, never get to call her from a payphone on a Sunday afternoon, or listen to her quote Plato and Voltaire . . . or Thomas Merton.

Reid felt a lump forming in his throat and tried to swallow it away, but it was no use. His vision blurred with tears that dripped onto his scarf. She was gone. Grief overwhelmed him, smothering him as he fixed his eyes on the coffin and tried to listen to the words being read aloud, but he couldn't concentrate.

Reid felt Hotch's steady hand grip his shoulder tightly. He glanced to his left, but Hotch was still politely watching the speaker. The simple gesture seemed to convey that he didn't want to embarrass Spencer by acknowledging his tears but still wanted to let him know that he was not alone.

On his right, Reid suddenly felt a small hand slip into his own. Blake squeezed his hand firmly, and Reid saw that her own face was tear-streaked as she stared straight ahead. He squeezed her hand back, trying to convey his gratitude as well as trying to anchor himself to the present as he said goodbye to the future he might have had.

Moments later his free hand was also grasped and he looked over to see Garcia discreetly nudging Hotch aside so that she could stand next to him. Like the rest of the team, she kept her face pointed straight ahead, but he felt her thumb trace small circles on the back of his hand.

If Garcia was here, that must mean Morgan was close by. Sure enough, Reid felt the man's hand on the back of his neck, gently massaging the muscles.

Rossi made no physical contact, but Reid spotted him on Blake's other side. He was the only one who dared to make eye contact with the genius. Reid found that he didn't mind.

He felt Garcia lean over and place her head on his shoulder as he lost what was left of his composure, no longer trying to hold back the tears. Morgan began to rub his back, slowly moving his hand back and forth between Reid's shoulder blades as Spencer took deep, heaving breaths. This was it. She was really gone.

_Bye. Love you._

"Goodbye," Reid whispered through his tears. "I love you, too."

As the funeral ended and the mourners dispersed, the group of BAU team members moved off a respectable distance, but Hotch stayed by Reid's side. He never tried to force Reid to interact. Instead, he fended off curious acquaintances for Reid, including speaking to Maeve's parents when they came to offer Reid their condolences.

"Are you ready to go?" Hotch asked, once there were only a handful of family members left at the graveside.

Reid wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve and nodded. Part of him wanted to stay there forever, be near the only part of her that was still left on the earth. But another part of him knew that whatever was left inside that coffin wasn't Maeve. Maeve was gone—free from the worry and fear that had plagued her final months, no longer confined to her house or surrounded by colleagues who were jealous of her brilliance. Reid hoped that wherever she was, she was happy.

Thinking about it later, Reid didn't remember leaving the cemetery. The car ride home was a complete blank. Reid's memories of that day were of gentle hands and comforting touches. He remembered his team, his family surrounding him in a protective wall of love.

Reid was far from recovered. He was still emotionally crippled and would be for weeks—likely months—to come. Yet the support and strength of his friends gave him hope. They loved him and made sure he knew it. They reminded him that he wasn't alone and that his life still had meaning. Maeve would be glad for that. And suddenly Thomas Merton's words took on a new life:

_We do not find the meaning of life by ourselves alone . . . we find it with another._

He had lost Maeve, but he wasn't alone. With that thought in mind, Reid curled up on his couch with a book held tight to his chest. He closed his eyes and felt peace for the first time since that day.


End file.
